


Monster in your bed

by Adara_Rose



Series: La Commedia Infernal [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Romance, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 10:23:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13785495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adara_Rose/pseuds/Adara_Rose
Summary: Perhaps you were set on this path on a dirty classroom floor when you were thirteen years old. But it was a silly question, and in this moment the answer does not matter. the hows and whys are irrelevant, all that matters is the fact that there is a monster lying beside you, his fingers cold as ice as they stroke your naked skin.





	Monster in your bed

_How did you come to this?_ It is a question you have asked yourself many times. Perhaps you were set on this path on a dirty classroom floor when you were thirteen years old. But it was a silly question, and in this moment the answer does not matter. the hows and whys are irrelevant, all that matters is the fact that there is a monster lying beside you, his fingers cold as ice as they stroke your naked skin.

You reckon you should be revulsed, terrified, but you are not. Instead you let yourself feel, truly feel, for the first time in many years. You have made yourself as hard as a stone, smooth as glass, so that nothing penetrates and nothing sticks. It has been your only protection from the cruelties of the world. But here, you have no defenses. It is as if you, somewhere deep inside, know that the most terrible monster in existence is lying on top of you, and therefore there is no need to protect yourself. It can't get any worse than this. Except, there is no pain. His hands are as cold as ice, his eyes as sharp as a freshly sharpened knife, but his kisses are fire and his body fits against yours as if you were created to receive him. Perhaps you were. Perhaps you came out of the womb ready to receive him, and you were reshaped to fit on that classroom floor. Shaped by a monster to fit a demon. 

"Darkling" he whispers in a voice that is like ancient parchment and dusty rooms, his hardness pressing inside and the lack of pain is more terrifying than anything else. "My darkling." And you run your hands down his back, feeling bones and muscles strain under the paper-thin skin and you let the pleasure sweep you away, forgetting who you both are and where you are and the wrongness of this. For you are his to do with as he pleases, and it pleases you, too.

You are not stupid, though. Oh no, you know perfectly well what sort of creature you embrace, what the hands that you kiss have done. You know what he is capable of, and you know that the rest of the world is right in fearing him, cursing his name. He is a monster, and a monster of the worst kind. He is a murderer, a torturer, he is planning to commit genocide and you wonder if you will fight him. You are expected to; to die to stop him if needed. But you already know that you won't. You will fulfill the promises you made as you wrapped your legs around his waist, the promises he demanded you make as he moaned his name for you. 'Darkling, darkling, stay safe for me. Hide, my darkling.'

So you hide in plain sight, hide where everyone can see you. The words they speak of you do not become you in the slightest; how can they know that the boy they call prat, stuck up, ignorant, is no more? It is the darkling hearing those words, and they cannot hurt a creature of shadows. His darkling, the creature he has taken from the filth and degradation on the classroom floor and turned into... something else. Sometimes, you amuse yourself by thinking that the most suitable word would be concubine. Except you are not a concubine, for he keeps you hidden. Safe. So that you cannot be made a tool to use against him. And you love him for it, as much as you are capable of loving anyone. For in order to love someone else, you must first love yourself. And you have no love in your heart for the boy that is you. You cannot love filth, can you? No one loves a bag of garbage left by the side of the road. So no, you do not love yourself. And thus, you cannot truly love anyone else, either. But you are his, and he keeps oyu safe, and you are content with that. He will not let anyone else touch you, take you, force you. That is for him and him alone. You are his to torment, torture, but once he is done he soothes. Then he holds you like you matter, kisses you like you are beautiful and is sweet and tender as he buries himself within you. That is when he makes you his darkling. 

It is not a good thing, this whatever it is, but you know it will end. It has to end, eventually. You hope it will be with him finding himself unable to stop, going to far, and you getting to die at his feet. Die as his darkling. The alternative is that he will be destroyed in this war he has started and you will be forced to live your life as a lie. Hide the darkling away deep inside and be who the rest of the world thinks you are. The mask that is so familiar by now it is like wearing skin. So when he send for you and meets you with wand drawn, his thin lips twisted in fury, you hope that this will be the time he kills you. And after he sends you home, still slick with his seed, you cry not because you have once again given yourself to a monster but that you once more was forced to survive. 

You think of all these things this night, as you obey his summons and go to him. When you step into the room where he likes to meet you, that little parlor that almost looks like a normal room if not for its contents, there is music playing on an old-fashioned gramophone of the sort that your parents keep in the living room. 

'There was magic abroad in the air' the man on the gramophone sings, as He holds out his hand to you, offering you a dance. And you come willingly, letting the darkness envelop you in an embrace that is as close to safety and comfort that you have known since that day when you were thirteen. His touch is as cold as death, but it always is and you have come to connect that feeling to protection. As long as you are unfalteringly his, no one else will ever cause you any harm. So you rest your head on his shoulder and whisper,

"What is it you know that I do not?" but you do not really want to hear his answer. He gives it anyway. It is a small cruelty, but one he finds pleasure in.

"Many things, darkling."

"And tomorrow?" you do not know what is making you ask, for you fear the answer.

"Tomorrow what must happen, will happen. Do not fear, my darkling. You will be safe."

You dance slowly, the firelight low and soft and the music soothing. In his arms, you know that even though it is a cage with bars of razors they will never cut you if you just stay still, warm, welcoming. And how can you not? No matter how wrong it is, no matter how harshly you will be judged, you love him as well as you are able. He is a demon, a devil, a monster of the worst sort - but he is your monster. 

"I want to ask you to come back to me" you whisper into his shoulder, feeling his grip on you tighten momentarily.

"Then why don't you?" He asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"I never ask you to make promises you can't guarantee you'll keep." You remind him, and his laugh is low and gravelly like the lid of a coffin sliding into place.

"Good boy." He murmurs, and then he turns your face up to his. 

His kiss tastes like ashes and poison, his lips are cold as those of a corpse, and it is the sweetest kiss you've ever known. So you give yourself to him right there, on the floor, and as he moves between your legs you find yourself wishing you'd never drunk the poison he gave you. Then you'd be able to have a child, his child, your own private secret that you'd never share with anyone. 

But you cannot have children, anymore. No matter how you wish it. But you can have the memory of how his touch turned you to ice as it lit you aflame, and how even though his eyes were cruel they never turned that cruelty on you. You can remember how his hands, that tormented and tortured and ruined so many innocents, stroked your skin as if he was touching a priceless artifact. You can remember that his lips were poison and his kisses were the sweetest of wine.

You will remember all those things, and they will be what has you smiling and cheering along with the others as they celebrate the destruction of Lord Voldemort.

Because he was a monster, you know that to the depth of your being. But he was _your_ monster.

And he never let anyone hurt is darkling. 


End file.
